


paradoxon

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thousands of moments leading up to this one and Castiel is still surprised. Motel beds, the back of the car, diners and the bunker experienced together, and he almost can't bring himself to say the words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paradoxon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not used to writing coda fic, be gentle with my heart. Spoilers for 10x22 The Prisoner.

Oftentimes, Castiel sees it as a disadvantage that he remembers everything. Too many things closing in on him, memories he should have left in Heaven. The creation of life unfolds in front of his eyes whenever he so much as briefly considers it and its consequences. He remembers too much and too well, and if being human taught him anything it’s that memories can sting like a bitch.

But right now, he’s glad he’s got them.

“Dean,” he says with the memory of all the times he has ever said that name. Affection, anger, confusion, love, they all pile up in his head and they’re all in that single word as he says it now.

It’s almost easy to turn off the pain by now, he has had too much of it to still take it personally and truly feel the endings of his nerves scream. Dean’s knuckles can pierce his skin without problem now, and Castiel doesn’t know whether he’s pushing himself or the man he loves.

And so he remembers.

He remembers their first kiss. A stolen little thing, just a brief peck on the lips, the seed to a short, quiet misunderstanding. They were standing by the Impala, Castiel was mere seconds from zapping away when Dean kissed him. Just like that, just a smooth chain of movements. He threw his gun in the trunk along with his jacket, he closed it with a creaky melody, and before he walked to the front door, he leaned in and forced that stupid little kiss onto Cas’s mouth. No words, no nothing.

They didn’t even look at each other. Well, fix that – Castiel was looking, wide-eyed and confused and _happy_ , the emotion sneaking in on him unexpectedly, but Dean wasn’t. He slid behind the wheel and turned on the engine. And Castiel’s chest was about to burst, and he didn’t know whether it was because of what he felt himself, or whether it was the burning sense of longing reaching him, still, sitting on his lips.

It’s the burning sensation that brings Castiel back to the present; it’s there again, but it’s no longing now. What used to be their bond, the signal between them and the emotions Dean always radioed towards him, they’re all gone. It’s dead, it’s like a piece of fabric tied between them, filthy and used and loose.

The burning he’s feeling is his skin. Castiel feels like Dean is peeling it off pore by pore, even though it’s just simple punches. He is so strong now, stronger than Cas will ever be. Hasn’t he always been like that, though?

Castiel ponders, the world moves slowly around him. It’s an ever-coming avalanche of punches, hard stone-like hands connecting with his skin. He catches a glance of them and he doesn’t know which blood-stains are his and which aren’t. 

He does nothing to stop it, because he remembers, he remembers the dark crypt and the horror he felt when he snapped out of it, worse than anything he had ever felt before. And it’s such a wrong thing to wish upon someone, but he wants his lips to bleed and his eyes to swell, and he wants Dean to see and feel the horror, he wants him to snap out of it. It’s all very selfish, perhaps.

Dean’s fist reconnects with Castiel jaw and his teeth clink together.

Dean’s skin is cold where it meets Castiel’s face, merciless, but Castiel remembers it differently. Dean’s cheeks used to burn hot.

Like when they kissed for the second time, a proper, real kiss shared in a small motel room. Castiel cradled Dean’s chin in his fingers, not really sure why. His thumb came up all the way to the right corner of Dean’s mouth and Dean breathed out, and Castiel knew that he got Heaven all wrong before.

His fingers slipped a few inches down, to make room, and his lips cautiously covered the same corner of Dean’s mouth again. He could feel the slight stubble against his chin and Dean’s bottom lip pressing against his.

He caught a giggle and a relieved breath, to this day he thinks they echoed at least in Dean’s chest and bubbled up into the kiss, but he’s not sure. Dean’s hands came to rest on Castiel’s shoulders and the man angled his face carefully until their mouths fit together and the kiss was finally clear and so very _there_.

The fight they had had before dissolved into it, into the simple touch. Dean had a split lip back then and Castiel could feel the scab as their mouths moved. And he remembers, he remembers as it re-opened and Dean hissed but kept kissing Castiel anyway. As Castiel’s tongue slipped into Dean’s mouth, he healed the wound. For the first time, Dean didn’t get to see the blinding silver light because his eyes were shut close and he was breathing heavily, one of his hands moving up Castiel’s neck.

Castiel would never, will never forget that kiss.

He remembers the ones that followed, he remembers the hugs and the closeness. They shared beds or laid on the backseat of Dean’s Baby together, and Castiel never slept. Fifty-seven times, he remembers that well, he kissed Dean in his sleep or touched his wrist to feel his pulse.

Castiel hasn’t felt his own pulse in a long time, the way he’s feeling it now is only through his bleeding wounds and hurting face and broken bones. His angel heart is beating and pumping in every hurt spot, a magnitude of sounds and drumbeats; there are a lot of spots.

They almost get to be too much, and so he closes his eyes so as not to see his own failure. He doesn’t want to beg, not yet. His voice is quiet in his defeat.

“Dean. Stop.” He says it with hope, perhaps.

He naively hopes to see a spark of recognition on Dean’s face, on the face Castiel holds so dear, but there’s nothing. The only response to his plead is a bony knee kicking him in the stomach and Castiel cannot, does not want to straighten up.

He chooses not to fight. Not because it would be useless or because he has lost already; it’s because he wants to believe, really. The snap is still possible, right? He closes his eyes over and over again just to escape the pinkish blood smeared all across Dean’s face, dried on his clothes, absorbed into his very being. If he saw, he would have to accept that it might be too late.

Willingly, he lets Dean fling him across the room like he’s just a ragged feather on his ruined wings. 

It’s always been about trust, and about believing, hasn’t it?

Castiel goes back in his memories, allows himself the luxury one more time and goes through files and files of uninteresting data. Trust is not something he can just remember, it’s not tangible, it’s just a feeling that has nestled in his gut a long time ago.

After the first kiss, they became too close for their own good and Castiel still remembers the suffering of being torn apart. They spent so much time alone, and their stolen moments weren’t enough, and Castiel didn’t understand how humans could go through this daily. His chest constantly felt like bursting.

And when they were together. 

The place didn’t matter. The weather could be a raging storm or a California sun and it would still taste the same. Castiel liked kissing, but he wanted all he could get. Sitting on motel beds with Dean’s legs in his lap, talking about a case. Glaring at each other and Dean grabbing at Castiel’s wrist when he didn’t want him to walk away. Arms thrown around shoulders and laughs huffed out against Castiel’s neck. It was all too much; it was never enough.

The nights they spent together, oh, the nights. Castiel remembers it all so well, that night when he showed up and Dean told him that Sam had his own room. The neon lights of the no vacancy sign sneaked into the room that was now theirs and fell in stripes across Dean’s skin as they rocked the bed together. That night felt infinite.

Castiel remembers the way they stretched on like cornfields and all he wanted then was to stay with them, live with them and love them, and be in love with Dean. And he couldn’t, but his hair was still ruffled back then and his shirt was a pure white, and he put all his faith and trust in what they had.

They fucked up so bad. 

Castiel did, but Dean did, too. But to Hell with that – the trust was always there. It wasn’t born when Castiel saved him, nor in that old filthy barn. It was the bond he always mentioned – the fact that they ultimately wanted to do the right thing. Castiel’s biggest regret is that he never allowed Dean to be the right thing, or the other way around.

He owes him that much, and maybe that’s why he refuses to fight. Because not fighting is the right thing. Castiel somehow believes that by not fighting back, by letting punches land on his face, he is choosing Dean.

His decision to offer up his angel blade is sub-conscious. It slides out of his hiding spot and he blames it on his weakness, but its silvery coldness is comfortable and expected. 

Is this truth or naivety? Or is it madness?

Truth is, Castiel is scared. He feels like God or whatever is left of him wouldn’t bring him back this time, and he’s only got one chance. And he’s scared, because he doesn’t recognize Dean. Those eyes are the same green, but they’re emerald icebergs, they lack depth. He looks dead-set on finishing this, and Castiel can’t recognize him.

Dean takes the blade and Castiel watches it through a red curtain of blood. He wants to protest, but the ‘no’ he tries to get across is muffled and gurgles up his throat with blood. 

His memory is a blank page. He tries to come up with something else to remember, a smile or a laugh or a moan or a hug, but he comes up with nothing. The only thing he has left is himself, and that has never been enough.

Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and tries for pulse yet again. It’s there, but it’s somehow faint – if he were to touch his other arm, he’s sure he would feel the Mark scream with life. His grip tightens and the thing he does next is the stupidest thing to ever even cross his mind.

Despite everything he told Sam and Charlie, he tries to heal it. He can’t even reach it and now he’s barely holding on to Dean’s hand. He can’t heal it, he can’t, but at least he tried. 

It’s time, it’s time to beg.

“Dean,” he says and it’s just desperation now, “Please.”

Dean reaches up and the lights of the bunker reflect on the blade. Castiel’s knuckles turn white, but Dean doesn’t even flinch. 

The blade falls, and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s dead because Dean jerks away and his body heat is gone. No more punches, no more nothing. There’s loud ringing in Castiel’s ears and Dean’s promise of not missing the next time they cross paths is muffled. It’s barely there at all.

Numb, that’s what he is. And his memory still refuses to come back. He could do with a memory right now. He turns his head to the side and sees his own reflection on the blade, standing straight where Dean buried it in one of the books scattered all across the floor. 

He should feel victorious. He’s still alive, and so is Dean – Castiel thinks so, and they can read the book now. He begged and it helped, but he doesn’t feel like he won at all.

There was no snap, this was no dark crypt. If Castiel as much as moved, Dean would jump back and drive the blade through his heart. He simply lies there, motionless, still scared. He has never felt more like a child.

This night, too, feels infinite.


End file.
